Tiny Tim opened the door and scratched his crotch. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, his mouth hanging open, eyes uninterested in the small vision standing on his doorstep; pink from her cerise hair to her cherry froufrou skirt.
‘Oh, hello,’ the voice was as soft as candyfloss and just as sweet. ‘Are you ummm…’ the speaker’s eyes travelled the 6ft 5 inches of height and the gargantuan belly that was at eye-level, ‘…Tiny Tim?’ she finished, looking hopeful.
Tiny Tim chewed a bit of his bacon sandwich that had been lurking, scared, behind one of his teeth and he masticated it thoroughly as punishment before swallowing. ‘Nope,’ he said and slammed the door. Homes under the Hammer was starting in a minute and he didn’t want to miss any detail of peeling wallpaper, knackered kitchens and revolting bathrooms, especially as he lived in a house very like them. It cheered him up to think there were others in the same boat.
He was just lowering his enormous cheeks into a beleaguered looking armchair, when the doorbell rang again, followed by a rapid tattoo of knocks. That was probably what the fairy considered a hard hammering of the door. He sighed and pressed pause, before heaving himself up on meaty legs and waddling to the door again.
‘What?’ he asked.
The fairy looked up at him with large, dark chocolate eyes. They were frowning as if he wasn’t quite what she expected. He got that a lot. But she obviously decided to push on.
‘I am the Sugar Plum Fairy!’ she announced, with a pirouette and a little bounce. She held her skirts and curtseyed.
Tiny Tim pulled out half a doughnut from his pocket. It was slightly furry and there was a cinema ticket stuck to it, but it was still good. He started munching, watching the Sugar Plum Fairy. They stayed like that a while, the Sugar Plum Fairy obviously expecting some gratifying remark on announcing her name, and Tiny Tim wondering whether he had any biscuits left in the cupboard.
The Sugar Plum Fairy cracked first. ‘Well,’ she said, business like, ‘I am going door to door with the mythicals -that’s people like you,’ she pointed at him, in case he missed that ‘you’ was him, and herself ‘and me – because something quite terrible has happened and we need help.’ She looked at him, head to one side, and smiled in an encouraging way.
He was sure he’d bought a multi-pack of digestives. Now where were they? He can’t have eaten them all. Could he?
‘So…’ she said, pulling his attention back, ‘Are you with us? Will you help?’
He drew in a large breath, ‘Nope,’ and slammed the door. Now he thought about it, they might be in his Emergency Cupboard in the garage.
With a sudden bang, the door blew off its hinges and landed on the carpet, and he turned just as the Sugar Plum Fairy jumped up, grabbed his jumper by its neck and hanging on shouted, ‘Now look ‘ere matey, I’ve been polite, I’ve been nice, I’ve treated you with respect and all I ask is a little respect in return.’ He was going cross-eyed making eye contact; she was so close. ‘S..S..Sorry,’ he stammered and burst into tears.
The Sugar Plum Fairy jumped down executing a beautiful Échappé sauté en route. She took his hand, and they moved to the front room, where she cleared a pile of magazines, free newspapers and old plates from the sofa, before drawing him down to sit next to her. From her small skirt pocket, a very large handkerchief appeared, pink and lacy of course, and he blew his nose with vigour. The Sugar Plum Fairy grimaced, but she said ‘Now, what’s all this about?’
‘Nobody loves meeeeeeeeee,’ Tiny Tim wailed, blowing his nose again.
Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.’ The Sugar Plum Fairy patted his hand.
‘It is. Nobody loves meeeeeee. I’m all alone, and I’ll never have a boyfriend, and I hate my life, and I wish I was dead.’ A huge wail followed these words, and the Sugar Plum Fairy considered him, then looked around.
‘Hmmm. Have you got any family?’ There was another, bigger, wail.
‘Yes, but they emigrated to Australiaaaaa, they were fed up with cold Christmases and goo-goo-gooses.
‘Geese,’ Sheryl corrected.
‘Whaa…?’
‘Geese. The plural of goose is geese.’
Another wail greeted her words. ‘Sorry, sorry, not the time. Oh dear. And so, you stayed?’
‘Yes, I used to love Christmas and Uncle Scrooge would take us out for the biggest and bestest Christmas dinner ever.’ He sniffled and started ticking off on his fingers, ‘There was smoked salmon, and bucks fizz, then there was a huge goose, with roast ‘taters and maple parsnips and buttered carrots and Brussel sprouts with those bacon bits and then there was Christmas pudding and Christmas cakes and mince pies and a trifle and wine and Baileys and….’
‘Okay, okay, I understand. What happened?’
‘Family left, and then Uncle Scrooge died and then I had to work at B&M Home Stores until Midnight on Christmas Eves and I only had Fray Bentos in, ‘cos there was no point cooking for one.’ He snuffled.
Sugar Plum Fairy didn’t look impressed. ‘Well, I’m not leaving you here like this. You’re coming with me. Come on,’ she held out her hand and he took it, standing up. ‘You’d better call me Sheryl.’ She sniffed. ‘Have you showered?’ she asked, her nose wrinkling.
Sheryl knocked on the door of the gingerbread house, gabled in red and white candy cane, with spun sugar windows and angelica grass. Tiny Tim broke a piece off the lintel and ate it and Sheryl slapped his hand. He looked at his feet, ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, looking shamefaced, ‘Hungry. Anyway, I thought you said there’d be loads of us?’
It was Sheryl’s turn to look guilty. ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d come if, you know, it was just me. I did try, but most of them wouldn’t and that’s why I snapped at you. I’m sorry. I will put your door back.’
‘S’alright, I need to redecorate anyway. So, this here is the person stealing the chocolate out of all the Advent Calendars?’
‘Yes!’ Sheryl was excited, ‘I’ve traced the evil felon to this address!’
‘Using magic?’ Tiny Tim asked.
‘No, I asked around at the warehouse, and this car was seen at the time of the robberies. I called in a favour and got the address, et voila!’ she pirouetted, and jumped, landing in a plie.
At that moment, the green shortbread door opened and both Tiny Tim and Sheryl gasped in surprise. Before them stood…a Snowman, his carrot nose and coal eyes staring at them in horror.
‘Is this your house?’ Sheryl asked, her voice high with disbelief. ‘You’re not a witch!’
‘What’s it to you?’ the Snowman asked. He was belligerent but both Tiny Tim and Sheryl could sense his nervousness.
‘Just want to ask her some questions,’ Tiny Tim said, using his most soothing voice. He was a very nice-looking Snowman.
‘She’s gone to live with her sister in Germany. In the Black Forest Gateau.’ Snowman said. ‘I rent this from her now.’
Sheryl had meanwhile been looking down the side of the house. ‘That your car?’ she pointed to a red Volkswagen Beetle with a Christmas tree stuck on its roof rack.
‘Err, maybe, yes.’
Sheryl suddenly whipped out an Advent Calendar from her skirt. Tiny Tim was impressed, just how big were her pockets? ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ she asked, thrusting it in his face. The Advent calendar was a brightly coloured cardboard affair, with little doors, behind which was a picture, even though there was space for something else. A chocolate. The snowman’s face crumpled and there was a tinkling sound as crystal teardrops hit the steps. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m stuck in this house surrounded by food, and I can’t eat any of it. Gives me a terrible craving for sugary things. I work packing the Advent calendars and thought if I took the chocolate from them no one would notice; people would be happy enough with the Christmassy scenes, you know just the pictures.’
Tiny Tim and Sheryl looked at him and said in unison, ‘No one’s happy with just the pictures.’ Tiny Tim shuddered, ‘No chocolates. Ugh.’ Snowman looked at him and said, ‘You look like you enjoy your food.’
‘Hey!’ Tiny Tim shouted, stung.
‘Oh no, I meant it as a compliment. I like a man who likes his food.’ Snowman smiled. ‘I’m Neil.’
Sheryl looked at him. ‘’Neil’ the Snowman?’ she asked, laughing.
‘Yes.’ Neil was stung this time. ‘Why what’s your name?’
He waited. ‘Sheryl.’ said Sheryl, on the defensive.
‘She-ryl’. Neil repeated, slowly, savouring each syllable.
‘Watch it,’ she said through narrowed eyes.
‘What about you?’ he looked at Tiny Tim.
‘Oh, I’m Tiny Tim.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ They locked eyes.
‘All very well you two flirting, but what about the chocolates?’ Sheryl interrupted.
Oh, I know I’m really sorry. They’re in the garage. Could you help me put them back? You know, in time for Christmas?’ Tiny Tim blushed, and said he’d help.
Sheryl rolled her eyes.
—
Christmas day dawned cold and bright, and Sheryl pirouetted and plied and performed the Pas de Chat and a few Changement as she went, all whilst holding a tottering pile of presents.
As she approached, the gingerbread house door opened, and Tiny Tim beamed at her. ‘I’ve come over early to help cook Christmas dinner. Goose!’ he said, and helped her in. ‘Neils in the kitchen. I’m a bit worried he’ll start to melt; it’s so hot in there.’
Nevertheless, the Christmas table was set and the friends, for that’s what they had quickly become, enjoyed the biggest Goose Tiny Tim could find with all the trimmings, plenty of wine and the cheesiest Christmas songs on the radio. The only thing missing was a log fire, but Neil was susceptible, so Tiny Tim and Sheryl were wrapped up in their finest Christmas jumpers and Sheryl even had a red tutu on for the occasion.
After dinner, once charades were finished and they were dozing by the TV, Tiny Tim started crying. ‘What’s the matter?’ Neil and Sheryl asked, worried.
Tiny Tim looked at them both, his new friends, and the table which looked like a miniature battlefield of bones and leftovers and said, ‘This has been the best Christmas ever!’
And they all lived Happily Ever After.
The End
Post-Script
Naturally, Tim and Neil moved in together, renovating Tim’s house to such a high standard it was featured in Architectural Digest with the two of them and their Shih Tzu, Pamela.
Sheryl joined the National Food Crime Unit to combine her detective skills with her love of food.
They all have Sunday lunch together once a month, and Sheryl brings a succession of men to be vetted. So far, only Mike has made it to the record five-lunch mark.
There are high hopes of a Christmas wedding. Or two.
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